For You
by The Baker Street Irregular
Summary: "They were always for you. You do love a good serial killer." - Sherlock has two types of fans. It turns out that John is the 'catch me before I kill again' type... / Post Fall / John the Ripper / Rated M for Murder and attempted suicide


As always, Sherlock Holmes knew.

He paused to form an assessment. Heightened breathing. Digestion temporarily shutting down - blood rerouting itself towards deep muscle tissue; change of blood flow resulting in strange physical sensation in lower abdominal region. Elevation in sympathetic activity in the autonomic nervous system. Increase in adrenaline and cortisol production…His body was perceiving a potential unknown threat.

Sherlock Holmes always knew, but he never hesitated.

He took a deep breath in attempt to supply more oxygen to his bloodstream. The chase had poetically ended at the place where it had all begun. St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The patron saint of origins, where Sherlock had first met the only friend he would ever have, where Sherlock would then fake his death to save him, and now where Sherlock had found himself browsing the office of Dr. John H. Watson, fingers brushing the length of a bookshelf stopping to hover over one title in particular. An early copy of Grey's Anatomy. Standard. Even as the information was updated, the book remained relevant for the sake of image. Every doctor would have one. A key hidden in plain sight. Dull and boring like John.

Dull and boring and Sherlock Holmes hesitated before tipping the book. Not because his body was preparing to face an unknown threat. No, Sherlock knew what was on the other side of the bookshelf. Knowing was precisely why he hesitated.

The secret lever released the latch, and with a distinct click the bookshelf invitingly and silently slid forward.

* * *

"There you are."

John gently smiled as he continued to work on the body beneath him. "Took you long enough, though I knew you'd find me eventually."

Sherlock carefully stepped into the small room, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the perimeter of John's secret.

"You know my methods Doctor, I first had to eliminate the impossible. What remained, however much I did not want to acknowledge it, was the truth."

Sherlock glanced at the body John had been meticulously working on. She would make the 11th victim in a series of distinct prostitute murders spanning a three year timeframe in central London. All completely drained of blood. Hearts removed. Bodies cut neatly into square pieces, and always presented wrapped in bows – a beautifully elegant shade of sapphire blue - for Lestrade's men to find.

"You always did fancy blue."

John paused momentarily to admire his work, relating the matter-of-fact to Sherlock. He measured another strand of signature ribbon, "This one's a bit rushed though...knew you were coming so I didn't have much time...I had planned to make some tea-"

"The victims. They're for me."

It wasn't a question. John's working became still. He quietly placed his tools on the metal countertop and glanced upwards to meet with Sherlock's accusing eyes.

Sherlock found himself staring into the abyss; distant vacant spheres containing an insatiable hunger which had consumed John's eyes. Momentarily, a glisten echoed from their depths, and before Sherlock could stop himself, he read John: Eyes slightly sunken into sockets. Possible drug use, most likely alcohol. Discoloration of skin...not from crying - absence of ruptured blood vessels. Lack of sleep - PTSD induced nightmares. Distant and vacant appearance of pupils - nightmares resulting in dissociative reality as a coping mechanism, possible panic attacks following nightmares. New worry lines and thinning hair, both of which, much too early for his age. Body approximately 15lbs lighter - High levels of stress and anxiety Lack of emotion resulting in unused Muscle tissue - cheek tissue slightly sagging. Arms slightly scarred - Self Harm - attempt to compensate for...

The abyss tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings forcing himself to break eye contact with John. He couldn't keep reading. He averted his gaze taking a step back to create distance. The cool of the brick wall breathed against his neck, giving the impression that the already small secret of John's, was constricting around them, suffocating Sherlock. His pulse elevated; once more his body tensed in search of a potential threat. John isn't a threat, Sherlock reminded himself, he is simply a Hound of Baskerville, there's nothing to be afraid of.

John's vacant gaze followed Sherlock's movements in complete adoration. The doctor knew he was being deduced, and he relished it, even if it were at his expense. A slight smile tipped the corner of his mouth, another glimmer flickering through the dense water of his eyes as he answered Sherlock's accusation.

"They were always for you. You do love a good serial killer."

It was the same crooked smile that he had longed to see. Sherlock's mind accessed an archive of consciously collected memories of John to compare with current reality. Dozen's of remembrances, flooded his mind palace:

John, smiling proudly at Sherlock's side as he waltzed into a crime scene and commanded authority.

John, Hiding a smile towards Sherlock's blunt and often inappropriate comments.

John, Smiling to himself, lost in thought as Sherlock made a particularly clever breakthrough on a case...he replied with that smile, the words 'amazing', and 'fantastic'.

It was the same. Same as always: boring, dull, smile, glimpsed countless nights, as John, while watching telly and eating chinese attempted to steal a glance of Sherlock, only to find him already admiring his friend. When their hands or arms accidentally brushed. Unspoken emotion betrayed John's lips when he became suddenly aware of the inappropriate-for-flatmates closeness between them; a sweet nothing which escaped from that broken smile.

Archived because Sherlock understood that smile was reserved solely for him. A sweet nothing and everything shared between only two individuals of 6.5 billion. And Now, John stood before Sherlock, offering a mutilated prostitute wrapped in a beautiful sapphire bow and that bloody sweet smile; whispering sweet nothings and shared secrets which kissed shivers down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock's blood diverted within his system again; abdomen coiling upon itself in twisted hesitant emotions as his mind archived the new memory of John. A choleric taste stirred in his mouth as his flatmate returned to handling his newest skeleton.

"But let's be honest then, you've known since Mary, haven't you."

Sherlock remained silent. Had it been any other circumstance, it would have been the crime scene of his dreams, but the only one who could have seen those messages dancing like poetry across the crime scene; whispering those sweet nothings, was Sherlock Holmes himself.

* * *

Mary Mortsan, the first victim, and the fiancée of none other than John Watson. Her body found cut into neat little squares decorated in sapphire. Even as the Murder's technique matched his profession, John was an excellent actor, and who would ever suspect boring average John of murdering his darling. The only person who had made John relatively happy since Sherlock's suicide. However, Mary had a secret. She was leading a double life as a prostitute under the name of Mary "Polly" Nichols.

John feigned heartbreak and devastation. A lost puppy with a limp, who had the entire yard wrapped around his leash.

It wasn't until the 5th victim that Mycroft had gotten involved. It was becoming one of the Queen's worries; talk of the London press. The killer was getting desperate to the point of sending provocative warning letters.

The second Mycroft handed Sherlock the case files, he knew. Not just because Mycroft had personally asked him to take the case from the grave. He asked because it involved John. Apparently his fiancée was murdered, and poor, heartbroken John was at a complete loss.

The kindness was highly unusual for Mycroft. Sherlock suspected that Mycroft had already known who the killer was, but chose not to get his hands dirty, instead utilizing Sherlock's ties to John; successfully passing along the responsibility of being the Queen's hound to Sherlock who could easily solve the problem. After all, the dead didn't have to play by the rules of the living. He browsed the documents and examined the evidence:

The Killer's modus operandi was precise and meaningful. He targeted prostitutes. Anger? Perhaps his mother was a prostitute. No. He removed the victim's hearts. Revenge? He loved a prostitute, and she pretended to love him. Repeat customers are good business, the killer was angry... Then why the grandiose presentation of the body? If it were for revenge he would have killed her and been done with it. Dumped the body in the Thames and removed all attachment from the name. It wasn't revenge, it was sentiment. But not any kind of sentiment. A much more vicious motivator, this murder was done out of love...but not for the prostitute. The prostitute was treated as an object. A gift. A vehicle to explain the killer's state of being. Explain a simple and elegant message of unrequited love: It was tearing him into to beautiful decomposing pieces.

The extravagant crime scenes were presented as if it were Christmas morning to Lestrade's men. Conclusion: the killer had fallen in love with someone working in law enforcement. Someone who had loved them at first, but cut ties. Most likely when their job became too dangerous or demanding. Desperate to re-create a point of contact, the murder was a cry for attention. If the unrequited lover was not going to return to the killer, the killer would go to them. The body of a prostitute - an eroticized statement that the murderer was unafraid of danger. He was arguing that their relationship could have handled the burden of a dangerous profession. So much so, in fact, that they were creating it out of spite. They got off on it. But the beautifully wrapped gifts of flesh... no, that metaphor was purely internal. An attempt to both present and glorify the emotions of unrequited love, offering it in attribution, and as a measurement of authenticity.

But most importantly, the killer's signature style of mutilation. He wanted the world to know who he was by terms of profession. He was a doctor, who had anatomical and surgical knowledge, who knew how to properly dissect a body, bleed it dry, and preserve it long enough to be unwrapped by Lestrade.

But the gifts weren't for them; Lestrade and his men, as always were completely out of their depth. This doctor was too methodical to miscommunicate to his target. He was sending a specific message that only one other person in the population of 6.5 billion could read. And as Sherlock flipped through the photographs and case files - as he looked at the precise mutilation that only John's post-millitary hands could be responsible for, he knew.

A sweet nothing that whispered a secret everything: For you.

A bullet of realization accompanied the final piece of the puzzle as it burrowed into Sherlocks heart. Mycroft's kindness was genuine. The best gift his brother was ever going to give, was the opportunity for Sherlock to take care of John before his men did. Sherlock accepted Mycroft's offer, but he refused to believe it. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes hesitated. Stubbornly believing what he saw to be impossible, and he was prepared to spend the next two and a half years and six additional deaths eliminating the other impossibles, until there was only one remaining.

The Improbable Truth: John Watson had fancied himself a serial killer for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"You're an idiot." Sherlock quietly let the words fall from his mouth, eyes tracing the maze of tile. "You've gotten yourself to be the talk of London."

"People do little else, Sherlock,"

Sherlock flinched at his name. His eyes followed the voice.

"I had to give you the best, otherwise the you wouldn't have come to find me."

"I was pursuing an idiot by the name of Jack."

"I only ever signed the letters with J. No idea where 'Jack the Ripper' came from. I don't even 'rip' their bodies apart. You should know that...my work is elegant. You like the elegant ones." John trailed.

"Those murders were hardly elegant, John. They had you written all over them." Sherlock snapped, "Were you trying to get yourself caught?"

Another smile. Only by you.

John, removed his gloves and beckoned Sherlock, who hesitantly joined the two, taking a closer inspection of the body. John groomed Sherlock, reaching across the pile of flesh to remove a stray hair from his cheek, he held it to the light for Sherlock to see. Can't have that getting into the scene, now can we? John protected Sherlock, discarding the hair into a container for later disposal. He continued to defend himself, "I didn't like the name either. I tried to promote other names, but they didn't take. Not as if I could have charged into the press and demand the murderer's name be corrected...Though to be honest, I was hoping you might."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. How could John be going about this so...so normaly. Adrenaline making the attempt much more successful, Sherlock translated the chaos of his emotions into anger. His fists slammed onto the countertop, clenched in protest as he glared at John, unable to speak. John fell quiet, calmly leaning on the table. Both of them absently stared at number eleven in silence.

Neither had quite imagined their reunion to be like this. There was nothing to discuss. John knew that Sherlock had, as always, known everything. The only question that remained hung, imposing, between the two in the form of miss eleven. Where now?Both awkwardly avoided an answer. Sherlock had always thought John's ability to remain ever-calm regardless of circumstance was one of his talents, but now the gift of John's docile nature was perfectly unsettling.

Sherlock Broke the silence first.

"Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have tried to catch me, but they wont fix me just yet. Nobody can fix me. I laughed at them. They look so clever and talk about being on the right track...Catch me if you can. - J."

Sherlock regurgitated the memory of a letter sent to Lestrade. Relating John's words to unfortunate eleven; who was rather unfortunately a complete narrative of John's mental state for the past three years. No blood, No heart, broken into pieces that not even all Lestrade's horses and all Mycroft's men could put back together...

"You sent that letter 'from Hell.'"

John contemplated his victim for a few moments, before answering with a much too quiet voice,

"It was Hell."

John read Sherlock with a quick glance, answering the unasked question on his mind.

"Only you could have fixed me..."

"And if I had truly been dead?"

"Then I would have stayed broken."

"You removed their hearts, John. I'd say that's a bit more than simply being broken."

"...They didn't deserve them."

"So, I suppose that's why Mary was your first? That's what made it right!? She took advantage of-"

"I was bored, Sherlock."

That line was far too familiar for comfort.

"Nothing ever happens to me. Not since you."

Sherlock knew from the day his flatmate had shot the cabby, there was a ninety-five percent chance. He had glimpsed something dark lurking within docile, normal John. Sherlock knew he had to keep the doctor close by, but as time passed Sherlock had nearly forgotten about it's quiet existence, as had John. That was, until John had irrevocably embraced it following the fake genius' death.

To follow his detective beyond the grave John had sacrificed himself to it; allowed himself to be consumed until any broken fragment of 'John' that was left whispered sweet nothings which sang verses of death. John had payed the piper for a song; the cost was also the reward: The dead didn't have to play by the rules of the living; John was going to play by Sherlock's rules.

Sherlock knew from the moment in which he saw Mary in sapphire blue; scattered pieces across the floor, that John was completely and utterly broken. The corpse now standing before him confirmed what Sherlock was trying so desperately to deny:

What remained of John was a sweet nothing which sang sonnets of death for Sherlock Holmes.

"You should have known John...I had never intended-"

"I always trusted you were alive Sherlock...but I doubted you were ever coming back...more difficult, that. I tried to move on Sherlock...I really tried. Mary, she was a beautiful band-aid, reminded me a bit of you. Wasn't brilliant like you, but she was smart. In the end though, she was the same, hiding something...Love shouldn't have secrets...She was a prostitute, Sherlock, paid to spy on me by Moriarty's men. I suppose I should give credit where it's due. The thought of killing her gave me the idea that if I were to become a household name, you couldn't resist in finding me."

"And if I couldn't...If I didn't. What then?"

"Then I would never have been caught. Because I'm your doctor,"

John placed a cold hand on Sherlock's cheek. Another smile.

"I'm your killer, Sherlock."

John's eyes continued to tempt Sherlock to test thier bottomless waters. If Sherlock broke their surface with another deduction, he would undoubtedly drown in thier depths. Trembling, His warm hand reciprocated John's affection. Sherlock's thumb caressed the far to hollow cheek of his doctor. Words cracked in hesitation as he forced the unasked question into the ominous space between them. "John. Tell me, I need to know because you insist on using past tense. Is it still..."

"Is it still possible that I may fix you up."

Sherlock felt his eyes gloss over as the question fell from his mouth. He submerged himself into the abyss of his killer's eyes as he desperately searched against their currents for the smallest fragment of his John. But The piper had already lifted the veil. His John had stared into the abyss, which politely stared back until it had driven him mad. And now, Sherlock had found himself lost. Drowning in a sea of death beneath the surface of John's eyes; a suffocating darkness that whispered those abysmal sweet nothings.

For you.

John gave sherlock a reassuring smile, fitting his hands into invisible cuffs.

"If you take me in, you can restore your reputat-"

"Stop it."

Sherlock's voice broke. His hands wrapped around John's bony fingers, and pushed them down, "Just St-."

"..."

"I'm not going to arrest you. I can't. The idea is preposterous."

A sense of panic rose in John's features, "I don't mind, Sherlock, Just..." His voice shrank, "Don't leave...Would you do that? For me?"

John pulled Sherlock into an awkward hug across the table. Modus operandi; raison d'être. Sherlock returned the embrace, clinging to John's empty shell with a sudden unexpected surge of emotion towards it. John's empty words. Sherlock buried himself into the crevice of John's shoulder, allowing himself one moment to privacy. As if something as minuscule as the silent, emotionally charged tears in which Sherlock shed onto John could act as a defibrillator...tears couldn't bring his doctor back.

John smiled at Sherlock's rare human contact. He tilted his head to kiss the base of Sherlock's neck as his partner continued to silently weep in the gentle swaying embrace, "I'll fall apart without you. You do know that?"

Another sweet nothing.

"You...You are already in pieces, John."

"Yes, but…at least they're beautiful."

John's broken smile cracked into a hollow laugh as a large metal object filled the questioning space between the two. Sherlock pulled away from John and blinked back tears, creating enough distance from his emotions to do one more thing, just one more thing. The shaking tip of a silencer rested beneath John's chin. Vena jugularis interna. Quick, Painless, Ensured.

"I know you've never properly killed anyone, Sherlock."

John playfully tutted, pulling on Sherlock's hand. He shifted the gun's barrel, gently leading it to rest over his heart. Sherlock felt an encouraging squeeze as his doctor's hand wrapped around his own.

"If you're going to kill me...might as well do it properly then."

John knew all of his secrets. Is this what one would call poetic justice? Sherlock bitterly wondered.

"Come with me?" A hopeful glint in those consuming eyes.

For a moment, Sherlock craved John's sweet nothings which sang deadly sonnets. John had known that it could only end at this. John had been waiting to meet his maker, none other than the Sherlock Holmes, and he knew what The Great Detective had come to do.

John had been waiting for Death to arrive, and tonight, Sherlock Holmes was carrying his scythe; an agent no longer bound by the rules of the living.

"I'm already dead, John, lest you've forgotten." Sherlock forced the dry humor.

"No, you're not dead. Not yet...It's a pity though...won't have your doctor to fix you up when you are."

Here they were again. St Bartholemew's hospital. Roles Reversed. Sherlock's finger tensed against the trigger.

John wanted to be fixed. Sherlock would try to fix him.

"...Goodbye John."

Sherlock held his breath in hesitation. He didn't know if he could do this. He pressed the gun into his friend's flesh, willing the trigger to pull itself. He swallowed more rising emotions which had formed a knot in the back of his burning throat. What was he waiting for? Impossible? If John had attempted it, Sherlock would have, without hesitation allowed him remove the gun from his possession. Shoot him instead. He looked at John in desperation as he felt another stream of useless silent tears erupt from his eyes. One silly miracle, John, for me.

Don't be... dead.

John's forgiving smile cooed in understanding, "I have to do everything for you, dont I?"

John's fingers ghosted over Sherlock's. Brimming with all the comfort and love in the abysmal universe, he tenderly wiped away a stream of tears from Sherlock's pleading eyes. Lovingly, and gently John embraced Sherlock's arm, tightening his grip around the instrument that should have killed him ages ago. Easily, his military hands steadied it calmly and neatly into place. It wouldn't miss.

Sherlock tried to pull away. Stop. Stop it. This is absurd. You're an idiot. I'm an idiot. To hell with number eleven she was a tosser anyways. It dosen't have to-

John's gentle embrace clenched into an immovable grip, locking Sherlock to his heart. His voice whispering more of those dammed sweet nothings.

"Sherlock...you are...the most human...human being that I've ever known,"

Sherlock's voice protested, pleaded with John. He shook his head, mumbling through a waterfall of inconsistent phrases and emotions. A steady current, spilling "no"s and "I love you"s into John's bottomless eyes. Anything that would make him stop this nonsense. It dosen't have to happen like this. John, I can fix it! I promise you! You said I could do anything, I just need some time. Please John! John!

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much..."

His tears were useless. They were feeding a the ocean. With a distinct click the gun's safety silently slid forward.

"Don't ever change."

John sealed the remainder of the questioning space, planting a quick chaste kiss on Sherlocks lips. His body jolted upwards, releasing Sherlock, who was thrown free, stumbling over himself and onto to the floor. John's lifeless body sagged over number eleven, twitching in ecstasy. Eyes stealing a glance from Sherlock before his mind slipped into the abyss; His eyes, however, did not slip shut, they remained open, ravenously fixed on Sherlock as if to consume him as well.

Sherlock pulled himself to stand. The small room spun around him, suffocated him. He couldn't remember how to breath. His mind couldn't asses itself. He attempted to swallow the knot in his throat, and chocked, vomiting on the floor instead. He gasped for breath, drowning in implied poetic justice and the realization that John had just killed himself for Sherlock. Sherlock dragged himself to John's lifeless body, and clung to it, losing the remainder of his composure, the name of Sherlock Holmes be dammed.

Eventually, he had to will himself to move John to the morgue. Sherlock's mind was a blur as he transported John's body through the swinging gates of what he had referenced to some small children long ago as 'Hell'. He removed John's military identification tags, placing them around his own neck. Sentiment.

John looked beyond the ceiling with Broken eyes and a broken smile that had relished Death's kiss. How long had that broken smile been exactly? Sherlock stared down at those empty eyes, brushed his fingers across his lips at the memory, and again cried. John's eyes would not remain shut.

Sherlock exchanged the tags for his own sapphire blue scarf, which he used to cover those eyes, and that beautiful broken smile that had left Sherlock to pick up the fragmented pieces of his own heart. He archived one more memory of John, of that broken smile before sending it to the flames. He watched his heart burn alongside John's, and it burnt a hole which felt like an abyss.

Sherlock would remove all traces of Jack the Ripper. Not a shred of evidence would remain. That much had been decided as he contemplated the flames consuming John's existence. He would start by destroying all of John's secrets. He would finish the work of number eleven, if only to pull suspicion away from his doctor.

* * *

Hours of working melted into a continuous stream of time until Sherlock had become aware of himself opening the door to 221B. Willing his body to move, he reached for his own secret buried within the skull on his mantle: A clear capsule of pink-sprinkled-poison. He had saved it. The one thing in the entire universe, in which Sherlock Holmes did not know for certain was his own divinity.

He did not know Death, or if this pill contained it.

A sweet nothing ghosted across his lips. Sherlock's eyes glistened at the memory of John. The old cabbie... Sherlock swiftly took the pill, laughing as he rested himself on the sofa, preparing to follow his doctor into Hell.

"Not chance...chess. Well done, old cabbie...Well done!"

* * *

The rays of sun, nearly blinded Sherlock through the window panes of 221B, and The city of London hummed far too loudly with the sounds of life.

He wasn't supposed to wake up.,

Sherlock quickly retrieved the pill bottle. Had his drug use, made his body somehow resistant to the effects of the poison? He supposed he could run some tests. A note ominously sat, curled into the depths of Sherlock's secret. Sherlock had failed entirely to see it the night prior. He suddenly felt very alone as he recognized the messy scrawl of handwriting. Doctor's handwriting. The walls of 221b, expanded into an overwhelmingly empty, insatiable void. It could have only been one in 6.5 billion.

John knew all of Sherlock's secrets.

"It seems someone's given you a bad prescription, so I fixed it. If you don't approve, take it up with your doctor.

Imagine I'd fall apart without you. So one miracle, Sherlock, for me, thats all I ask. Just One. - John"

Sherlock Holmes painfully knew that he was alive.

But he felt dead.

John was his killer.

* * *

**Endnotes:**

**For those asking, yes, there are direct references to the actual events of Jack the Ripper.**

**• Mary Polly Nichols was actually a victim. **  
**• There were 11 victims in total. **  
**• The letter that John had sent was also inspired by the real one (I changed a few choices words) **  
**• Many believed that Jack the Ripper had surgical knowledge, and was intelligent, but dumbed himself down in his letters.**

**There is more, but I can't remember all of them.**


End file.
